


Slings and Arrows

by TheGoodTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)



Series: IT'S ALL TERRIBLY SIMPLE [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Amnesia, Coma, Complex relationships, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Lies, Making Out, Making it up As I Go Along, Multiple Slayers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season/Series 03, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Self-Denial, Slow To Update, Temporary Character Death, lying to people for their own good, teen parents, uncertain parentage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/TheGoodTwin
Summary: Buffy is back in the land of the living... but it doesn't look quite like the world she left behind.  For starters, she has apparently had a baby.  With Giles.  Which is something you'd think she might remember.  And yet, there is another baby living in her house, with her parents, who are back together, and whom they insist is Buffy's.  Xander is in love with Cordelia, who is in a coma, and also, aparently, not the enemy anymore. Willow is living on her own as a highschool student by day who runs her own, hightech Evilfighting HQ by night. And Angel?  He's gone.  Forever.  Like everything else in her life that once made sense.  All of which makes it seem pretty rediculous that she is *still* just a Jr. in Highschool.





	1. Something Rotten

Sunnydale, CA. September 7, 1998

Surreal. That was the word Buffy had been searching for. Surreal. Beyond reality, off into outer space where blackholes or quasars or whatever else stretched and bent reality beyond recognition. Surreal. It was a good word. Almost good enough. But even Surreal didn't quite cover this. Surreal fell short.

There Buffy sat. On Giles' same old green couch. Talking to same old Giles. Or someone who looked and sounded exactly like him, anyway. Well, not so much talking as listening and searching for words. Holding little Edmund (seriously, Edmund?) in her arms.

Despite the acute weirdness of everything, Edmund made her a lot less uncomfortable than Dawn had. Buffy wasn't sure if that was because he was really hers or just because she'd been warned in advance to expect him. The fact that he was cooing contentedly instead of eyeing her with suspicion and wailing for a replacement mom might also have been a factor.

Still, there was one thing about this new, competing version of surreality that Buffy just Couldn't quite wrap her head around. “So...” she labored to put it into words, to pin it down and try to make sense of it, “Your baby is also my baby? As in our baby?”

“Yes,” Giles assured her earnestly. He used his serious, really-listening, understanding-yet-businesslike voice. All Watchery and calm. Or hiding his agitation more like. He'd just about jumped out of his skin when Buffy had burst in on his little island of domestic tranquility. Regardless, his answer didn't match, well... anything. It implied things that made no sense. “And we made this baby, this _person_?” she pressed. “Both of us? Together. In the way that babies are usually made?”

“Well...” Giles at least had to decency to look a bit embarrassed here. “Yes.” His brow furrowed. He gave Buffy an appraising look. As if she were a particularly odd little puzzle he needed to solve. When he asked his next question, his poker face slipped just enough to show Buffy why. Sort of.

“So you don't remember anything at all about... what happened between us?” he asked, just a hint of hopefulness marring his concerned tone. Exactly as if he were relieved to find her memory a blank canvas, on which he could paint whatever he liked. Exactly as if he intended to tell her a very serious lie.

“No, I don't!” Buffy insisted angrily. She couldn't begin to guess the specifics of their... whatever it was they'd had or done or been. And besides, she was in no mood to play guessing games. “Why? What are you planning to tell me about it? Some kind of excuse how, how... I don't know, how somehow this is not your fault at all, like I actually wanted—” Buffy broke off, just short of a sob, hopefully soon enough that he hadn't heard that it was coming.

Evidently he hadn't, or at least he didn't care, because he pulled out his world-weary, extra-snide, very-Brittish voice on her next. “No, of course not,” he all but sneered. “It was all my doing. I overpowered you with my superior physical strength.”

Thick, angry silence reigned for a moment. “That's not funny,” Buffy finally manged to get out, just above a whisper. Two or three huge, hot tears escaped her eyes and ran down her cheeks. But she didn't actually shout obscenities or beat Giles to death with his own arm, so she gave herself pretty high marks for emotional control, considering.

Giles hung his head. Suitably ashamed? Or hiding his face to make it harder to read? There was a time that she would have automatically assumed the first. She didn't now. It was like she'd gained some insight about him that she didn't remember getting. Something that made her trust him less. Something that made her look closely enough to see signs of deceptiveness that she otherwise might have missed or ignored.

Either that or she was just being paranoid. Because she was completely freaked out. Because she'd been banged on the head hard enough to forget just enough of her life that what was left made absolutely no sense.

Had Giles really done anything or was she just lashing out at him because of his proximity to the part of her forgotten life that freaked her out the most? Getting mad at him the way it wasn't okay to be mad at a baby. Because they couldn't help ruining your life or turning it upside down or whatever.

Yep. That clinches it, she thought. Buffy Summers, worst mother in the history of the world. Voted most likely to suck and to continue sucking.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled, not sure if she meant it or if she just wanted the conversation to move forward. To progress to literally any place other than where it was at right now. “Just... help me understand. Giles, what am I to you? I mean are we... Were we... I don't know... a couple?”

It sounded ridiculous. But Giles didn't look like it sounded ridiculous. He looked like it hurt. The answer must have been more complicated than yes or no. Off came the glasses. Rub a dub dub. “No,” he said finally. “I wouldn't say that. It was—we were... together just the once. It had to do with...” here a small, self-deprecating laugh broke through. “With the end of the world, or rather stopping it.”

“Oh,” Buffy said, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Still feeling confused. Still feeling skeptical. Was there really such a thing as arcane rituals involving sex that could save or destroy the world? That sounded like such an Eighties B-Movie thing, something between cheap laughs and soft porn.

Maybe, maybe not. But that was Giles' story and he stuck too it. Not that Buffy could bring herself to question him too pointedly about it. The whole idea of it (losing her virginity in the line of duty, Giles fastidiously completing the unpleasant deed, poor Edmund being created as the inconvenient byproduct of achieving a higher purpose) seemed so unbelievably sad.

And yet, if there had been more to it than that, if due to some unimaginable chain of events she and Giles had really been attracted to one another, had feelings for each other even; she really, really wasn't sure she wanted to know. She didn't think she could handle even one more tiny piece of reality falling out of place.

And the thought of _Giles_ secretly nursing a broken heart, remembering a love that she'd forgotten? That would not have been a tiny piece of her reality. It would have been a huge, crucial, load-bearing chunk of reality coming loose, threatening to send the whole thing crashing down around her. Remarried parents, alternate babies, and all.

And suddenly, laughing with relief, laughing so hard that her sides felt like they were splitting, so hard that she cried even more, Buffy realized how crazy she was being. And she was being crazy. I mean, just look at Dawn! Dawn was the key to the whole thing.

Even if the idea of Giles and Buffy doing... this thing they had done, for anything short of saving the world, had not been as completely ridiculous as it clearly was; the idea that anything short of the apocalypse could have driven _Kendra_ to reproduce, was beyond belief. Kendra toed the party line when it came to the things her Watcher said she should not have. _School. Friends. Even family._ She could never have had a child in spite of her Sacred Duty, only because of it.

Suddenly, Buffy stopped laughing. Giles was looking at her very worriedly, but that wasn't why. This whole situation. The lives of these tiny children and the means by which they had been created. The whole thing was very, very strange. But it was not funny.

Buffy's laughter stopped, but her tears did not. It was like a dam burst, and before she could stop her self, she was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. So much so that Edmund was beginning to wriggle and fuss in response.

Giles' expression softened unbearably. He opened and closed his mouth at least twice, and when words failed him, reached vaguely in Buffy's direction as if he might take her in his arms. That could not happen. Buffy was about to have a complete meltdown. The last thing she needed was Giles looking at her, let alone touching her right now.

“Here,” she said abruptly, thrusting the now very uneasy baby into his arm as she got quickly to her her feet.

“Buffy, I...” Giles started, but she didn't let him finish. She turned and bolted for the door. She had her hand on the knob by the time he realized that she actually meant to leave and started to object, to ask her to stay and talk about it all some more.

“No, Giles,” she cut him off more firmly. “I can't. I just can't right now. Can't talk. Can't any of it. I just can't.” Buffy threw herself out into the night, barely stopping to pull the door shut behind her.

She half expected Giles to come running out after her. But of course he didn't. He couldn't. He was too busy trying to sooth his crying baby. Nobody else mattered when there was a baby involved. You couldn't be mad about that. It wasn't their fault. They didn't mean to ruin your life or take it over or replace you. They were just so helpless and breakable and irreplaceable. Babies were like Hellmouths; whatever else you had going on, they would always be more important.

*****

Willow's heart hammered. Blood rushed in her ears. They were alone in the house at last. Upstairs. In her bedroom. Her private sanctuary. A room that contained shelves full of books and enough computer equipment to run a very small army (which was arguably what she did with it); but which was dominated by a brand new King sized bed, all decked out in red satin, from the sheets to the throw pillows.

The night's patrol was done. Now it seemed that God had heard her prayers that she and the boys might never have to face another like it on their own. Now that Buffy was awake, now that they had a real Slayer again, _the_ real Slayer; it probably wouldn't be long until they had the vampires and demons dwindling in numbers and struggling to hold out from night to night instead of the other way round. Willow's heart was a geyser of triumph, joy, and passion. Her body was alive with the electric trill of it. The euphoria of hope ran like lightning in her veins.

Once again, Buffy had risen, literally from the dead, to save them. Even though this resurrection had been a far longer road back already, even though there was still a tangled mass of consequences to be dealt with; the end result had been the same. Buffy 2, Death 0. No one could deny it was a victory worth celebrating.

And Willow was ready to celebrate. God, she was ready! Truth be told, she had been ready a dozen or more times this summer, even with a lot less to celebrate, to bring Oz back to her well feathered nest of satin and silicone. To enjoy life while it was theirs. To celebrate the lightning in their veins for it's own sake. And for the sake of Love.

But it always ended up the same. And Willow knew that there was no real reason to think that this time would be any different. Oz pulled Willow into his arms (again) and they began to kiss passionately (as usual). Soon they were slightly-more-than-kissing (like always). He nuzzled her neck and she nipped playfully at his ear.

(Once again) Willow fought the urge to tense or cross her fingers or hold her breath. In short, she fought to suppress her apprehension that Oz would (yet again) become suddenly chivalrous and rush off into the night, leaving them both unsatisfied and alone. It felt like it could end differently this time, but it always felt that way. Still, she had to try.

Every inch of her skin tingled, longing for his touch. She inched her hands down lower and lower on his back before trailing them down along his sides to his hips; trying to work up the nerve to venture on into as yet unexplored territory. Praying for just the right amount of confidence or finesse or whatever it was she needed to move this perpetually chaste romance forward, in an adultward direction.

Then (like a million times before) Oz stopped and abruptly pulled away. Willow let out a tiny whine of disappointment and protest, but Oz was as resolved as ever. “No,” he insisted emphatically. “We can't. I can't. It's too risky.”

“You keep saying that,” Willow observed, just a bit plaintively. And maybe just a bit crossly. “But you never explain.” It wasn't about condoms or anything like that. She'd asked that already, before.

Oz's brow furrowed. Displeased. Brooding. Stoic. Quietly making decisions about what was best for both of them while only listening to his own counsel. “It's late,” he all but lied, using the truth as nothing but a convenient way to change the subject, “I'll call you tomorrow.”

With that he turned and made swiftly for the door in his own Oz-like, seemingly unhurried way.

“Hey!” Willow shouted, jumping between him and the door. “Hold it just a minute, Buster! I asked you a question! A-and not for the first time! And... well... I think I deserve an answer.” But her confidence faltered a bit as she involuntarily imagined the entire conversation with gender roles reversed as her mother had so thoroughly taught her to do. “Don't I?” she concluded hesitantly, miserably. Even she hated the little whine that crept into her voice at moments like this.

Oz's Stoic face softened into a cryptic but arguably affectionate little smile. He pulled her into his arms and the warmth of that contact calmed and soothed away her panic and frustration. Holding her close, swaying gently, he turned with her in a half circle as if they were dancing a very slow dance. Then, softly, he kissed her on the forehead and whispered gently, “I'll call you tomorrow,” as he opened the bedroom door (which was now, almost magically, just at his right hand) and left.


	2. Ghosts

At first, Buffy thought she was just walking. She didn't realize where she was headed. She didn't feel like showing up at home and having the inevitable fight with her parents about walking out of the hospital in the middle of the night against medical advice. Especially not now that they were both there to gang up on her again. Besides, she might wake their precious baby. That whole drama could keep until morning.

But Buffy certainly had no intention of going _back_ to the hospital voluntarily. She'd like to have been patrolling. She felt like killing something. But she didn't feel up to the kind of quick thinking it would take to face off against the forces of darkness without so much as a cross, let alone a blade or a stake. She guessed she should have grabbed something of Giles's on her way out, but it had just been too critical to not be there anymore at that moment.

So Buffy kept to the shadows, minding even less than her own business. Which felt wrong and sort of humiliating. But she had enough troubles to deal with tonight without going out hunting for more.

Instead she walked, her mind wandering, while her feet moved purposefully in the direction of what she wasn't thinking about. Until she found her self in the neighborhood of the Bronze. On the street in front of Angel's apartment building. Walking down the steps to his front door.

Buffy reached for the knob, then hesitated. Should she knock? How long had it been, for him, since they'd last seen each other? How long since they had kissed and killed together at the ice rink, fearlessly in love? Long enough for Giles to have gotten her pregnant, obviously. And at least a few months piled on top of that. Willow had said her pregnancy was accelerated, one of the many funtastic details of the whole Slayer gig. But surely it still had to have taken at least a few months to grown an entire 7-10 lb. person from one tiny little cell.

Buffy knocked, but probably not loudly enough for anyone to hear. Not even a vampire. She was getting cold feet. Why hadn't she asked Willow about Angel? How she'd left things with him; what to expect?

Well, okay, there was no real mystery there. Buffy had lost the will to sit still and listen the minute Willow had dropped the bombshell of the century on her. She and Giles had a baby. Together. It had taken hours for anything else to matter after that, and now here she was, smack in the face of anything else that mattered and not a clue what she was about to walk into.

But whatever waited on the other side of that door, Buffy had to see it for herself. She was pretty sure Angel had survived Career Week, but she needed to be really sure. To see him. To touch him. To hold him in her arms if that was even still possible. Which, it very well might not be, she realized, feeling more miserable and confused by the second.

Maybe Angel would hate her. Maybe she'd broken his heart. Then again, for all she knew, he and Giles might have cooked up the whole baby thing together while pouring over their zillion-year-old prophecy books and drinking hundred-year-old scotch. She wouldn't put it past either of them, what with it being the semi-annual End of the World and all.

Suddenly, Buffy felt so unsure of herself, so close to loosing her nerve that she couldn't hesitate any longer without backing out out altogether. That was not going to happen. “When in doubt,” she mumbled to herself, reaching resolutely for the doorknob, “barge in.”

“Naughty, naughty,” a tall, thin female figure answered in a nasty-sweet sing-song voice, suddenly slamming the door open from the inside. “It's not nice to come in uninvited.”

Buffy froze. Of all the things she might have expected to find in Angel's apartment, this was not one of them. Skin like snow, lips like blood, and hair as dark as ebony. It was strange how well two things, two people could fit the same description and yet be nothing alike.

The way Drusilla was nothing like Angel, even if they were both vampires. The way she was nothing like a helpless princess waiting to be rescued and no one to be counted out in a fight. And what in the name of Sunnydale was she doing here? Was she living with Angel now? Had she killed him? Were they lovers? Had Angel switched sides or had she?

“You!” Drusilla hissed, suddenly going full vamp face and lunging at Buffy, as if she'd only just recognized her. And maybe she had. Buffy doubted she looked much like herself after however many months in a coma.

That was her last thought about anything but tactics. This was not a time for thinking but for killing. And Buffy suddenly found herself feeling very, very ready for that, unarmed or not.

Fortunately, tactics were not Drusilla's strong suit. Especially when she was as pissed as she clearly was. As Drusilla lunged head-on for Buffy's throat, the Slayer hoped backward up three stairs and out of her way, just in time to send the vampire sprawling face first onto the concrete stairs. Just like Wiley Coyote.

Unlike the roadrunner, Buffy did not take the opportunity to flee. She jumped down into the middle of Drusilla's back, grabbed her by the hair, and slammed her face into the concrete again. Her eyes cast about for anything sharp, wooden, consecrated, or all of the above. But the stairwell was empty.

Drusilla tried to get her arms under her to push herself up, but Buffy slammed her face down a third time and a fourth, running on pure rage. Finally, Drusilla managed to struggle to her feet and shake Buffy off of her back sending her flying through the doorway into Angel's apartment, screaming with at least equal ferocity.

They had fought their way across the room, nearly to the kitchen door, before Buffy finally realized what Drusilla was saying, or rather, screeching over and over. “Youkildim, youkildim, Youkildim!” You killed him. The words struck Buffy in the chest like bullets. She could have meant Spike. But somehow Buffy knew she didn't.

_You killed him._

Buffy found herself on the floor next to the bed. Drusilla was on top of her, fangs coming at her throat again. She blocked with an arm, which Drusilla bit savagely, almost as if she meant to gnaw her way right through it to get to Buffy's jugular. Until she got distracted by the blood.

The quality of Drusilla's moaning and growling shifted from enraged to enraptured the moment Buffy's blood touched her tongue. Buffy let her have it. For just as many seconds as she needed. She couldn't have planned a better distraction. Although any distraction she had planned probably would have hurt a lot less.

Whatever. A pint or two of blood bought Buffy the seconds she needed to rip the bedpost off of Angel's bed with her free hand and jam it in Drusilla's back. It went in a good bit lower than the heart, but it left her wriggling on the floor in agony, no longer able to focus on fighting Buffy, or on anything besides her own pain.

Buffy grabbed an old shirt that was laying across Angel's chair and tied it around her arm to put pressure on the wound and help stop the bleeding. It only partly worked. Part of her wanted to stay and finish Drusilla off while she was down. But the part that was in charge of not dying knew that Drusilla wouldn't be down for long.

They might not be alone for much longer either. Between the noise they'd made and the sweet smell of Slayer blood everywhere, Spike was bound to be rushing home to his beloved at his best vampire speed. Buffy doubted he'd be more than a few blocks away. It was like the two of them were joined by an invisible tether. One was never far from the other.

For once, Buffy chose discretion over valor, as Giles would have said, and decided to get out of there while the getting was good. Even if out of there meant back to the hospital.

*****

All the machines in the room kept up their steady bleeping and blooping. Each had it's own unique little sound. Together they made a sort of off-white noise that could be soothing once you were used to the rhythm of it.

Xander was used to the rhythm.

He sat in the semidarkness. Half asleep; half awake. Half waiting for Cordelia to wake up; half waiting for her to die.

Xander came here after patrol most nights. This was a good place to wait. It was quiet here, but not too quiet, thanks to the Bleeping and Blooping. Nobody tried on console him here, to tell him they were sorry for his loss or that he would get over it.

In this room, the only person who mattered was Cordelia. She was the center of her own tiny universe at last. Here nothing was expected of him except devotion to her. And that was easy. He'd always known she was too good for him, better than any girl he would ever love again.

“Hey,” said a nervous little voice. One he knew so well that his certainty that he was mistaken felt like a knife through his heart.

“Buffy?” he asked doubtfully, drowsily, lifting his weary head to look. Then, suddenly wide awake, on his feet even, “Buffy! Oh my God, Buffy!”

She was in his arms before he knew that he had taken a step. Actually he must have taken all the steps. If anything, Buffy had stepped back. They were standing in the hallway. Which was too bad; because Buffy hardly got a sound out, let alone a word, before they had attracted the attention of at least a dozen hospital staff.

'What are you doing out to bed?' was the major refrain, aimed entirely at Buffy. Xander was confused by their blasé , commonplace annoyance. “But, she's awake!” he tried to explain. “It's... it's a miracle.”

A portly nurse heaved a heavy sigh. “You mean nobody told you?” she asked, sympathetically incredulous.

“Uh, yeah, that would be a no,” Xander returned indignantly. But already he was becoming distracted, watching as Buffy was all too easily lead away by an intern in a white coat who wanted to take a look at her apparently wounded arm.

The nurses gave him a few more words of encouragement or comfort or whatever, then told him he'd best leave for the night. They knew he was usually in Cordelia's room this time of night. Of course they did. But they liked it better when nobody could say for certain if he was or wasn't there. Admitting that non family members were sometimes allowed to visit after hours if the nurses liked them was against hospital policy.

Reluctantly, Xander got on the elevator and road down to the ground floor. He usually liked to stay until it was at least bordering on daylight. The hospital had a big parking lot, with plenty of cars to hide in, under, or behind; even at this hour. He had a cross on his key-chain and a little sprayer that said pepper-spray but was really holy water; but still.

Xander peered through the glass front doors, trying to convince himself that he could see enough of the terrain between the hospital and Uncle Rory's convertible to feel sure of getting there safely. But from this vantage point, there could be a couple of vamps making out in the back seat for all he knew.

Finally, just as he was on the verge of venturing forth, purely for lack of excuses; a thought struck him. Willow! Sure the hospital had probably called Joyce and Hank with the good news, but they weren't telling anyone yet, apparently. Somebody had to tell Willow. Which Xander manfully undertook to do. Which meant that he had to use one of the payphones in the lighted, crowed waiting area of the Emergency Room. Darn it.

Of course that also meant being glared at by the tall, blond creature who worked security in that part of the hospital at night. But even though the vampire still gave him the creeps, and Holy Moses would he have been afraid to go anywhere alone with the guy; Xander had to admit that at least Spike was on his best behavior at work. He guessed there was nothing some vamps wouldn't do to keep a job that had it's own blood bank.


	3. Too Much in the Son

The scene in the emergency room was just about one raving lunatic short of Bedlam, as usual. Parsons, the young (looking) orderly in the dark green scrubs, had to wait patiently while his connection to the Powers dealt with the usual insanity. “Well?” Spike demanded, turning to face him as soon as he'd gotten the night's latest two-pronged neck wound assigned to a cubical and pressed a thick stack of intake paperwork into the hands of a disdainful old woman with a broken leg.

Parsons shrank a little under the weight of Spike's casually impatient, expectant stare. “While we're young, mate,” Spike prompted, growing irritated when too long a moment had passed. Already there were two more would-be patients waiting at the counter. Neither of them looked to be in mortal danger, but neither seemed keen on being kept waiting a moment longer either.

And soon their would be more. A river of sniveling humans with their pitiful, never ending stream of injuries and complaints, backing up and pooling in front of the intake desk like the effluvia of a stopped toilet. No wonder Spike was always so cross these nights.

This job was beneath him, and he knew it. Even Parsons could see that. But it was where the Powers wanted him, so here he was. Probably more than ready to avenge his need to kiss up with more than a little kicking down. A fact which any underling would be wise to keep in mind if they wanted to avoid giving him an excuse to destroy them.

“She's back already,” Parsons informed his superior timidly, self-consciously eyeing the easily half a dozen human who were in a position to hear every word that passed between them. “Came back on her own. Injured, apparently. Must have tangled with a... someone. Blood loss nothing major.”

“I see,” Spike observed quietly, caustically. “'Apparently'. From that I take it you had no eyes on her during any part of her little excursion?”

“Well... I... no but see—Levetteson! th-the one who took your old job in security? He isn't really... umm, well, up, up to speed, so, so...” Parsons stammered in terror. Half way through he realized that in his desperation to shift the blame for loosing track of the slayer away from himself, he might have inadvertently pointed the finger of blame in Spike's general, direction. Seeing no way to salvage the situation, he let his sentence trail off to a slow death and proceeded to inspect his shoes.

“Well...” Spike replied grinning viciously, his forced cheer a little much even for a glorified receptionist with frustrated aspirations to leadership. Though he still spoke to Parsons, he was already turning forward again, passing out papers and clipboards. “Then I guess you had better go and get him up to speed before you end up explaining to Mr. Gordon how this not only happened in the first place, but happened again.”

Stammering something between thanks and apology, Parsons turned and made his way smartly back to the elevator to go spread some of the blame in Levetteson's direction.

As he continued performing the simple, rote duties of his new cover job with all the caring and personal attention of an answering machine; Spike found that he was at least as much exasperated as apprehensive. It was doubtful that the Slayer had killed anyone important in the short time she'd managed to (effortlessly) evade the Vampire-In-Chief's theoretically ever-present minions. But that didn't mean Gordon was going to take such an incredible slip lightly.

If Spike had had his druthers, Perky the Vampire Slayer would have been killed in her sleep months ago. But times being what they were, he had been forced to defer to Gordon, and thus, ultimately to Chase.

Gordon had tried to make it sound all logical, saying things like 'why would I want to trade an old beaten-up Slayer in a coma for a brand new one stirring up brand new kinds of trouble' or just as often 'They've got three Slayers already; what do you want to do? Make it four?' But Spike could see the truth all too clearly.

For reasons he could barely bring himself to hint at, let alone explain; Gordon was even more terrified of this new human Mayor than he had been of the previous one. And even without knowing the reasons, Spike had come to know Gordon well enough to take anything he was afraid of seriously. Not that Spike had any intention subjecting himself to anyone's command for long. But he could play the loyal subject well enough while he bided his time.

For whatever reason (probably just human soppiness, but who knew) Chase didn't want this particular Slayer killed, and so she hadn't been. Which made it part of Spike's job to keep an eye on her, a task that would no doubt become exponentially more difficult and unpleasant now that she was up and walking around again.

It was enough to make Spike long for the filthy, frigid streets of Cleveland where there was a practically defenseless fledgling Slayer even greener than Kendra had been waiting to be his fourth kill. He wasn't sure how much opportunity she'd had to train, but based on her trendy excuse for a Christian name 'Kennedy', he doubted she was a day over fifteen, so probably not much.

But his fantasies of stalking that tender prey, protected by no one but a couple of silly Watchers, were just that. Fantasies. If he crossed the likes of Gordon and Chase by abandoning his post, he was going to have to run a lot further than Cleveland to keep away from them. They had too many followers, and those spread too far across the Earth and often too well concealed.

Spike blew out a sharp frustrated breath and kept working. Kept refraining from killing the people in front of him. Kept being _nice_ to them. As his position required. Even Xander Sodding Harris, who was crouched so low over the payphone receiver cupped in his hands, looking about so shiftily, that he looked like a mime trying to communicate to his audience that he was making secret phone call in furtherance of a sinister conspiracy.

How had he let himself get into this situation? Spike lamented silently. It was like serving the Master all over again except not half so much fun, what with all the not-killing he had to do, in public at least, night in and night out.

Getting in with Gordon and his crew had seemed like just another way of turning his knowledge and skills to his advantage, of getting might on his side. But somehow it had ended up in his becoming a part of a vast organization that he could not easily separate himself from, nor bend to his will. Once again, he had become a lieutenant rather than a general.

Spike had duties now. Responsibilities. And they were beginning to chafe. Especially now that the very dangerous enemy Chase chose to regard as at least a potential friend had become a real rather than a theoretical threat again. And Spike had no illusions that Buffy Summers remained a force to be reckoned with, despite the amusing antics of her bumbling minions, who tonight, in all honesty, hadn't been any more bumbling than his own subordinates.

*****

“You know?” Xander asked, sounding honestly shocked. Hurt even. “What do you mean you know?”

Willow found herself involuntarily pitying him and feeling irrationally guilty for being who she was to Buffy, as if she had deliberately taken a place that should have been his. “Well, she called me,” Willow admitted hesitantly, “but not because—I mean only because.... Wait a minute, you haven't even been home, she... she might have called you too?”

Xander let out a groan of agony and impatience. Willow's heart sank. Even she wasn't convince by her own arguments. How could Xander, or anyone else be? “Well she might have,” she mumbled anyway, defending her fragile optimism more from sympathy than conviction.

“No, it's fine,” Xander assured in his best self-pitying grumble. “Of course Buffy called you first. I mean you two are the _best_ best friends, right? I'm just the other guy. I get it. I'm a boy friend, but not a boyfriend. Girls need a girl best friend for things like this, right? No biggie. I guess I should just get used to being one of the B-list friends who gets news like this the _next_ day. Like, like Amy, or Devon, or Giles.”

The silence was heavy. Willow felt trapped, panicked. Whatever she said next, her voice was likely to give her away. And yet, if the silence when on too long...

“Wait a minute!” Xander something between gasped and shouted, clearly mortally offended. “You mean _Giles_ knew before me? I mean I get why you'd tell Oz, because hey he was probably there when she called but, but Giles? I mean I'm more of a best-friend kind of friend than the Old Guy, aren't I?”

“Well...” that one squeaky word forced itself from Willow's lips with excruciating effort, but it was difficult to convince any other word to follow. The ones lining themselves up in her mind, rank on rank felt too much like lies, but speaking the truth was too much like betrayal. It was really something Giles should have told him. Or Buffy, now that she was awake again. It was really none of Willow's business. Even if she was both Xander and Buffy's _best_ best friend.


	4. All for One... Or Something Like That

“Well, well!” Spike declared with exaggerated, ironic amazement, “Looky what we have here.” The tall, flaxen-haired creature leaning casually against his new, titanium black Dodge Viper (one of the whole fleet of “Batmobiles” Chase had bestowed upon his key people now that he more than half owned the town; public and private sector alike) responded with no more than a tired look in Spike's direction as he got unhurriedly to his feet.

Truthfully, Spike wasn't all that surprised to see Edwards. A lot of 'old friends' tended to come out of the woodwork when you had an in with the local Knobs. But did he have to touch the Viper? Lounge on it even? It was a fast, sleek, sexy machine; but it was more than that. A symbol. A symbol of something Edwards hadn't earned and Spike had.

Sure, all the wigs had them; but in Spike's case, as in Gordon's and certain other special cases, the glass was tinted almost as black as the rest of the car. Technically it was illegal, on account of humans needing more light than that to see where they were going at a hundred miles per hour, but who gave a baby's scream about that? The car was made _for_ them. It was bleeding thoughtful. That was respect. More than any vampire ever got out of Wilkins, the the Master either, for that matter.

“You've got a lot of nerve coming here!” Spike fumed when Edwards responded to his firm greeting with no more than a guarded look in the blonder vamp's direction as he half-grudgingly got to his feet. “Seem to recall being ask to leave a certain domestic arrangement, and that none too politely.” Spike prodded. “So, out with it! What brings you crawling back then?”

“She needs blood,” Edwards answered flatly. “That half-dead Slayer you're supposed to be watching all but killed her tonight. She needs the full gallon, probably more. Maybe a lot more, depending on how long it takes the wound to heal. Today if she's going to be more than a half-conscious wraith of herself for the rest of her nights on Earth.

“So quit wasting time,” Edwards pressed with laughable gravity. “The sun will be up in less than an hour. There's no time for hunting. And you _know_ how hard it is for a vampire to come back from total exsanguination after even a few hours. It's not like you can tie her sire up and drain him this time either.”

Edwards was calm as anything saying all this. Grave, sure. But matter-of-fact. Like a surgeon telling you your mum wouldn't live a year. Like a vicar telling you your dad had drunk himself to death. Spike was almost as much puzzled as annoyed. The last time he'd pleaded for Spike to stick around and help put his mangled concubine back together, Edwards had been frantic with worry.

Still, Spike had to laugh at that last bit. Drain her sire indeed! He knew for a fact that Edwards was Zanya's sire. “That so?” he teased. “And here I thought you'd be up for it mate. I guess the prospect of being well and truly dead has dampened your devotion a bit after all. Sad that. True love burned to ashes and what all. But I still fail to see how any of this is my problem.”

Edwards look puzzled for a moment, then disdainfully amused. “Not my True Love,” he explained coolly. “Yours.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in and make their meaning clear. A moment in which Spike stood rooted to the spot, there in the slowly lightening parking lot. It would take far more than a moment to decide what it meant to him (or didn't) if Drew died now. Whatever he felt for her now.... It might not be True Love, but it wasn't nothing.

The sun was minutes from breaking the horizon. Spike could feel the darkness slipping away. At least Prague had happened in the evening hours, when there had still been time to kill the victims necessary to make sure Drusilla survived the night as anything more than a hollow shell of herself. But there was no time to kill now. There was no time for this Nancying about, reflecting on his feelings and what they meant either.

“Well, come on then!” he half shouted, not bothering to sort out if he was more peeved at Edwards, Drusilla, or himself. Barely even pausing to reflect on how much he was going to murder Buffy Summers, whether Chase liked it or not. “It's not as easy as snapping my finger. The humans are just coming on shift in the blood bank for a start. But there are other ways. I can get you what you need.”

*****

A rough hand grasped Xander's shoulder, shaking him awake. VAMPIRES!!! He thought for a panicked, confused second. But there were no vampires. In fact, this was a rescue. Kind of. A way in out of the night. Without breaking a window, which he had honestly not thought about until just this moment. _After_ surviving half a night outdoors on nothing but dumb luck.

“What'd'ya think you're doin' sleepin' on the porsh?” the thick, slurry voice of his rescuer demanded. You had to say this for the guy, he was consistent. Every night the sun set in the West; every morning it rose in the East; and in between Tony Harris got drunk.

“What Porsche,” Xander countered a second before becoming alert enough to realize how stupid that sounded. It was stupider as a joke than if he'd really been that confused. Fortunately though, his father was too pickled to even get what the joke was supposed to be, let alone figure out that it wasn't funny. He stood staring stupidly, as if he had been asked to do math.

Xander yawned and stretched and started getting to his feet. “Mom locked me out again,” he explained, in answer to his dad's intended question. “Like she said she would.”

“Thaz jus like your mother,” Tony mumbled, shaking his head. He was swaying more that a little, but still able to stand under his own power. Xander resisted the urge to offer his father a shoulder to lean on to make sure he didn't fall over. He knew from experience that the offer would not be appreciated.

“I wasn't even that late this time,” Xander whined instead, as Tony fumbled with his keys, murmuring and cursing. There was no direct response, but that was par for the course.

“You shu' get a gerfin,” Tony announced instead, apropos of nothing.

“I have a girlfriend,” Xander pointed out shortly, but Tony was too busy chuckling with delight over the fact that he'd finally found the key that fit the lock to take any notice of what Xander said.

“When I's your age, I lived with my gerfin in 'er mom's basmen. Shuld o' married that girl.”

“I know,” Xander agreed tiredly, humoring his father as he'd long since learned to do when he was in this state.

“Prolly would'a sep you came a long and ruin' it. Sharon Ross. She's'nangel. I wis she'd got knocked up firss insted'o your mother.”

“I know Dad,” Xander agreed, trying not to take it personally. This was just the way his dad was when he was drunk. No filter between his brain and his mouth. You couldn't take it personally. He was family. You had to make allowances for family. Even when they did lock you out. Out of the house _or_ out of everything else that was clearly going on and which everyone but you obviously knew.

“I was at the hospital, Dad,” Xander reminded Tony again. Doing his best to be patient. “My girlfriend is in the hospital.”

“'Sright!” Tony agreed, remembering. He staggered over the threshold with Xander following very close behind, just in case. “That rish girl. Chasegirl; Chase like the bank.” This brought on a fit of giggles, through which Tony managed to sputter. “Chase the Chase girl all the way to the bank. The Chase Bank! Chase the girl to Manhattan to the Chase Manhattan Bank?”

“Not Chase like the Bank, Chase like the Mayor,” Xander reminded his father tiredly, helping him out of his coat with only minimal resistance. “She's the mayor's daughter, Dad,” he explained for the millionth time as he turned to hang the coat in the closet by the door. “But I don't care about that. I don't care about the money or the future or any of it. I just want her to wake up. I _need_ her to wake up. And when she does, I need to be there. I need her to see—”

But apparently it didn't matter what Xander needed. Because when he turned back around, his father was lying on the couch, fast asleep.

*****

“Who else knows about this?” that was all Chase had to say in response to the disturbing news, and that oh so very calmly.

“Most of the hospital staff, the night shift anyway,” Gordon explained, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “But, by tomorrow—!”

“The whole town will know,” Chase finished Gordon's frantic thought with quiet gravity. “Above ground and under.”

“Never mind who _knows_!” Gordon raised his voice in frustration. With a look from Chase, he lowered it again. “What are we going to do?” he finished in an urgent whisper. “How do we stop her from, from—”

“Stop her?” Chase asked with a wry chuckle. “We're not going try to stop her. You don't try to stop a bullet. You just have to get out of it's way. Which works out especially nicely if there happens to be another enemy standing behind you.”

This simple explanation made sudden, overwhelming, calming sense. Gordon released the useless air he had been holding in his lungs out of habit. All of his worry and tension were released along with it. The noise was half sigh, half death rattle.

Chase had a plan. Of course Chase had a plan. One that included the Slayer. One in which she was an asset. Why else would he have kept her alive all this time? He had done this wise and noble leader wrong, Gordon realized, to think he would have done so out of mere sentiment, human though he was.

How foolish it was to ever question Garrett Chase. His greatness transcended life and death, human and vampire. Anyone who stood in his presence could see that. His was worthy above all others, and he deserved his trusted servants' loyalty. After all, Chase was the one who counted.


	5. My Money's on the Witch

As night faded into day, Garrett Chase never left his office. He rarely did these days, except to visit Cordelia's bedside, and that no more than twice a week. He had been freed from the need to sleep (among other biological inconveniences) by the various rites he had performed or had performed on his behalf. By the sorcerers and demons he had managed to ally himself with.

He was the Mayor of Sunnydale now, above and below, to an extent that Wilkins had never been in his long but very limited life. And he had plans to rule much, much more. He'd have to move carefully at first, build up his strength; but within a few years he expected to be the power behind more than one throne. How could he not, considering his newfound powers of persuasion. And every god worth a tinker's damn knew that running an Empire was a full-time job, one that could easily be 24/7 if you let it.

But that wasn't why Garrett Chase never went home anymore. Even with his need to constantly keep his finger on the pulse, his cell phone worked as well as his office phone. Besides which, there was almost always a lull between four and six am, when humans and demons alike tended to be asleep.

There had been no such lull tonight, but that was hardly the point. Most nights, he could have gone home for an hour or two without being missed at all. Assuming he had wanted to go home ever again. He didn't.

There was nothing for him there. Cordelia was gone. Almost as unfortunately, her mother was not. Useless lump though she had always been, Claudia Chase, had somehow become even more useless since Cordelia's 'accident' had reduced her to little more than a breathing corpse.

That woman was an insufferable millstone around his neck. If it wasn't for certain deals that had been made long ago, Garrett certainly would have divorced her by now. Or smothered her with a pillow in the bygone days when they had actually shared a bed.

One job. All her life, Claudia had had only one job. Raise his child. Get her to adulthood without letting her die, get pregnant, or otherwise be ruined by this Hell adjacent town. One job, for which she was still being paid ungodly sums of money even though she had utterly and completely failed.

Claudia had hardly been able to keep track of Cordelia's comings and goings since she'd taken to her bed with increasing regularity in the late eighties, first complaining of 'migraines' and then 'Epstein-Bar'. As if no one had ever had a headache or been tired but her. Now she was milking Cordelia's tragedy for all it was worth. You'd have thought they'd been joined at the hip, the way she wailed and moaned about losing _her_ daughter.

But soon, very soon, all of that would change. One usually thought of vampires as being useful mainly as muscle, but Chase had found that some of the older ones tended to have also gained invaluable skills and knowledge over the years. They had been instrumental in helping him figure out what he needed to shore up the crumbling foundations of his life, the better to support the weight of his would be empire.

Thinking of which, there was a knock at the Mayor's office door. The back door. The one most people mistook for a coat closet. The one that led to a windowless stairwell, which connected to the basement and thence to the tunnels below.

“Come in, Gordon,” Mayor Chase said matter-of-factly. He didn't raise his voice even slightly. There was no need. Mr. Gordon could hear the invitation well enough from where he was.

Chase spared a moment for a small smile. The secret to why his office required a specific invitation by name each and every time a vampire entered was something he had not shared with any of the vampires on his staff, and he knew it rankled them more than a little. Though if Gordon was smarting from that indignity now, you'd never have known it.

“We've found out the girl's name,” Gordon said without preamble. “The current incarnation of the Prime Witch lives right her in Sunnydale, and if anyone can save your daughter, she can.”

Chase studied Gordon. He looked not just stayed but grim. He was leaving something out. His pause was heavy, holding back more that had to be said. “So, what's the bad news,” the Mayor asked impatiently.

Gordon actually looked worried. Definitely a bad sign. “For starters,” he said solemnly, “They found the vampire who bit Buffy Summers on her little excursion from the hospital earlier. Your Slayer all but killed Drusilla tonight, which has got more than a few vampires taking a second look at who's on whose side around here. She's... well not exactly beloved, but connected. Most of all to Spike, who has just given two John Does an express check out from the Psych ward at Sunnydale General just to get her through the night.”

“Go on,” Chase prompted, careful to show no emotion. He could see in Gordon's eyes that this more or less expected result of Buffy's inevitable wakening was not the half of the bad news Gordon had to tell.

“One bit of good news,” the vampire stalled, seeming genuinely nervous. “The Prime Witch actually knows your daughter. She's a close friend of the Harris kid. So you may not need to do anymore convincing than to tell her you need her help, and she's young, so with any luck, she might not figure out the extent of the trade off that has to be made until—” Gordon stopped abruptly, looking both puzzled and apprehensive, and no wonder.

Chase had managed to control his features well enough, at least he thought so. But he could feel the color draining from his face, and he had no doubt the vampire had noticed it. In an involuntarily hushed voice, Chase asked, “Do you mean to tell me that Willow Rosenberg is the Prime Witch?”

“Yes,” Gordon admitted, getting genuinely twitchy now, “But it's a mixed bag really when you consider—”

Mayor Chase was not having it. “A mixed bag?” he demanded caustically. “The Prime Witch, the first to come along in more than a century, is the last of the Levine Witches, a descendant of Josephus DeLac, allied with the Slayers and the forces that support them, and born at exactly the right time and place to come of age just as my power is on the rise!

“No sooner do I throw off Wilkins' dead weight and get my legs under me, than the _Universe_ moves to block me! Not to mention we can basically forget about ever turning her against Buffy or vise versa. If they were any closer, they'd be engaged! The only worse news would be if God himself were on her side, so don't stand there and try to tell me it's a 'mixed bag'. It's a bag of shit is what it is.”

“True,” Gordon admitted grimly. “So what do you want to do about it.”

But Chase seemed almost to be speaking to himself now. “If we're going to even have a chance at getting her to heal Cordelia, we'd better do it now. I don't know how long we'll be able to keep her in the dark. She may be having visions already.”

“After what happened with her father,” Gordon agreed, I'd almost bet on it. “Whatever you're going to do with her or about her... If you don't do it soon she will be too powerful.”

 


	6. Like She's Not Even There

“Please!” Rupert Giles all but wailed over the wires, across the Atlantic, and directly (painfully) into Quentin's ear. “You can't be serious about replacing her, not now!” His tone was desperate, almost frantic. Certainly deferential enough, at least on the surface. But there was a strain of angry, entitled demand running beneath the surface. As always.

Andrew's spoiled and rebellious child remained exactly that despite the many long years that should have brought him wisdom and emotional maturity. Despite the disasters that should have brought him humility or at least an appropriate sense of shame. The little prince still thought a direct order from his superiors on the Council could be treated as a mere invitation to negotiate.

“The Council has done nothing but to finally act upon your request to have a new Slayer assigned to the Hellmouth as you have been so persistently urging us to do for months,” Quentin reminded the junior Watcher. “That being the case, and Ms. Summers now being well enough to travel, why should you expect her to remain here? After all,” he added, deliberately speaking over Rupert's preliminary, petulant huff in the direction of an impertinent response, “It isn't as though you have any unfinished business with her.”

That shut the fool up for all of ten seconds. He didn't dare utter the truth that Quentin and every sensible member of the Council already knew. That however Rupert had reached the appalling decision to lie with his own Slayer, in doing so if not beforehand, he had become so hopelessly emotionally attached to her that he could hardly be trusted to let her get on with her work, let alone act as her Watcher.

“She has a son she's barely seen once!” Rupert shot back instead, as soon as he had found his tongue. Dear God! The thought that anyone who fancied himself a Watcher could imagine that to be the winning argument in this debate!

Not that there was anything to debate, whatever this surly son of a Slayer thought. Quentin spoke with the authority of the full Council in this. And at least as importantly, he had the express support of Andrew Giles.

The new Slayer and Watcher had already arrived in Sunnydale, their identities known to few outside the Inner Council, and certainly not to Rupert Giles, whose 'family leave' could be extended to the end of time for all Quentin Travers cared. He could stay in California until he rotted, or fall off the face of the Earth. It wouldn't make any difference. Buffy Summers would be in London by the end of the month.

*****

“I don't understand,” Joyce said, mildly confused but decidedly worried and maybe just a little peeved. “How could she just leave?”

“Yeah,” Hank jumped in all manly and aggressive and bad-cop-like. “Don't you have any security in this place? Who was supposed to be watching her?”

She's right here, Buffy thought detachedly. Almost boredly. I wonder why somebody doesn't just ask her.

“Mr. Summers,” one of the doctors, or possibly administrators was saying, in a way that meant calm down with just a hint of shame-on-you. Which Hank definitely noticed and was not about to take lying down.

“Don't you take that tone with me!” He retorted. “I want to know why my daughter, a minor, in your care, who has just woken up from a coma and is obviously still mentally confused, was allowed to leave this hospital in the middle of the night and go get herself attacked by a... by a... God-Knows-What! You can't even tell me that!”

And now it's like Mom's not here either, Buffy thinks. Just two men shouting at each other while the women silently adorned the room like so much furniture.

“Frankly, Mr. Summers,” the guy shot right back, “I don't see any reason to believe that she was attacked by anything! For that matter, I doubt that she ever left the hospital! These wounds are obviously self inflicted! And from what I gather, if your daughter is 'mentally confused' that's noting new since the accident!”

“You're a table,” Buffy mumbled, too low for anyone to hear over the sound of the two alpha males beating their chests. “And I'm a lamp.” She laughed just as quietly. They had given her the good drugs this time, obviously. A lot of them. It was like watching the world from outside. Through an imaginary fourth wall, like something on television.

That was fine with Buffy. She didn't think she'd mind being a lamp for a while. Joyce did seem to mind being a table, but what could she do about it? Her mouth kept opening but nothing came out. Like she was physically incapable of interrupting them.

“Well, even so,” the hospital person was saying when Buffy tuned in to their conversation next, “Other than a couple of puncture wounds, physically at least, I can't find anything wrong with her! So unless you are willing to have her admitted to Psych for observation...”

Suddenly, Buffy snapped to attention, all present and accounted for. “No!” she shouted, almost screamed. Hearing the panic in her own voice, she lowered it almost to a whisper for fear of sounding crazy. “Dad, Mom, please. Please, I don't need that,” she begged, in a surprisingly unshaky voice if she did say so herself.

But those few, entirely intended words seemed to unstop her throat so that she could not prevent an increasingly frantic and crazy-sounding stream of verbiage from tumbling out of her. “I'm fine, really. I tried to leave, to come home, but a... dog or something bit me in the parking lot and I was scared, I guess, because I wasn't supposed to go out, so I said I didn't know what bit me which is suspicious I admit, but I'm sorry and I'm fine, and please, please, I can't spend another night here, I have to go home!”

There, that should do it. They'd lock her in the Psych ward for sure after that. And as horrible as that sounded, it still would have made more sense than whatever so-called life she'd be living otherwise. Maybe, with enough of the really good dugs, she wouldn't even care that she was in a hospital.

It might have been easier too. The not having to care. Not being able to screw anything up. Not having to unravel lies from truth or hold any crying babies. The Council could send a new Slayer. The Slayer could bring her new Watcher. The babies could sleep safe and sound and protected by their new, better, grown-up parents. And they would all live happily ever after.

Except for Buffy. Who wouldn't care. Because it would be like she wasn't even there at all. Like a lamp that lights up exactly like it's supposed to whenever you flip the switch. Like a doll that talks when you put her string. Maybe being Crazy wasn't such a bad idea after all.


	7. No Direction Home

Buffy went straight up to her room after staring vaguely at dinner. She was still kind of amazed the hospital had let her go, still feeling like she should be in bed, still waiting to feel okay or normal or whatever.

Only her room wasn't her room anymore. It was Dawn's. The tiny infiltrator was lying there in her crib, fast asleep, surrounded by her unimaginable array of decorative yet functional accessories. Even the wallpaper was different, white with pink bunnies and blue ducks.

Buffy flopped down in a frilly cushioned rocking chair, gave it one, half-hearted push and let it rebound as she stared off towards nothing in particular. She'd only been gone about four months. How could everyone and everything have moved on so completely?

“Oh, honey,” Joyce said, sticking her head in the door. “There you are.”

“Where else would I be,” Buffy pointed out, “Nobody bothered to mention my bed wasn't here anymore.” Buffy realized she sounded harsh, but she couldn't quite find the energy to care if that hurt her mother's feelings or not. It seemed pretty clear no one had given a second thought to how she was supposed to feel, walking in and finding all this.

“Ah, yes,” Joyce said in a nervous, dejected little voice that somehow suggested that she was the one having to put up with something but without sounding hostile enough to mount a defense against. Her sad-not-mad-that-Buffy-is-being-Buffy-again voice. “Well, yes, we moved your—we moved everything down to the basement. But I made up the twin bed in the office for you. If you're ready...” her voice trailed off eyes downcast.

She might not have been trying on purpose to make Buffy feel guilty for caring that they had bulldozed her room to make way for Precious Baby Dawn. She probably wasn't. Whatever it felt like.

“Whatever,” Buffy said, “I'm beat. I'll just... see you tomorrow.”

But as soon as she made it to the hallway, Buffy changed her mind. She couldn't just go to bed. She had to go find Willow and get more details about what had really happened in the lead up to her near fatal getting smashed by a car. She bounded down the stairs and straight out the front door, not bothering to respond to her mother's apprehensive one word interrogative, “Buffy?”

She walked quickly, purposefully, already going over in her mind the zillion things she needed to ask and which were more important. She hadn't gone two blocks when Hank pulled alongside. At least he didn't try to pretend he wasn't angry. “Buffy, what do you think you're doing?!” he demanded.

“Feel's like walking,” Buffy answered dryly, not breaking her stride. “One foot, two foot... yeah, I'm gonna go with walking.”

“Get your behind in this car right now, young lady,” he demanded, going for authoritative, but just sounding hacked off. Well, hacked off and a little desperate. He clearly had nothing to back his bluff, no clue what his next move would be when she didn't get in the car.

Wow, Buffy thought. Did I ever fall for this? And she had. She had been scared of him once. Scared of his disapproval. It seemed ridiculous now. What was a wagging finger or an attempted grounding compared to the forces of darkness? What difference did his opinion make? He didn't even know who she was.

“Buffy, if you don't get in this car, so help me—!” She turned and looked at him, letting him feel the full weight of her apathy. “Please, just get in the car,” he said in a tight, desperate voice that wanted to be more gentle.

Buffy sighed, “I'm just going to Willow's,” she said, dialing way back on the attitude. “It's only eight-thirty. I though I was tired, but I'm not tired tired, just... tired.”

Weirdly, he seemed to know what she meant. Which made one of them. “I'll drive you,” he offered. “There's a lot of weirdos out at night.”

Buffy shrugged and got in. He tried to talk to her about getting back in school. She made noises of agreement where it seemed appropriate. The semester had barely started. How hard could it be just to re-enroll? Apparently she had some incompletes, but there had to be rules for dealing with that. People got sick. It wasn't like she was the first kid ever to miss a ton of school.

That was all surface stuff, anyway. Part of what used to be her real life but was more of a cover now. Buffy Summers, high school student. Maybe not Prom Princess anymore, but still just another teenage girl. With problems like unwanted pregnancies and missed finals; problems that were serious and messy but within normal parameters.

Being practically dead all summer, waking up in a world where everything and nothing had changed; it had given Buffy some perspective. It didn't matter whether she graduated from high school or not. It wasn't like she was going to live long enough to get through college anyway, never mind having an actual career. Being the Slayer was her life's work. It was time to stop living for someday and start living the life she had now.

The only thing that mattered about being enrolled in Sunnydale High was that it got her access to the Hellmouth. The only possible reason to care about grades was to keep her parents off her back. And that only mattered until January.

“I'm moving in with you,” she told Willow, as soon as Hank drove away. “The minute I turn eight-teen. I'm not staying in that house a day longer than I have to.”

“Parents,” Willow agreed sympathetically, “They're great unless they're not.”

“Exactly,” Buffy agreed. She might have said more, but Willow was starting to get that look, like her thoughts were too deep and she was afraid she might fall in. She changed the subject, and Willow seemed relieved.

No wonder really. Buffy had only gotten the bare outline of what had happened to Willow's parents; dad killed by vampires, mom in mysterious coma a la hellmouth. But she had way too much of her own stuff to figure out to even think about trying to push Willow into talking about anything she wasn't ready to talk about. It didn't help when people did that, as Buffy knew from experience.

So they talked about Buffy. Her life or anyway the huge missing bits of it. The easy stuff first. Classes. Grades. Snyder's hoops. Xander's thing with Cordelia. What Buffy and Cordelia had been doing in the middle of the same street in Arizona at the same time. The fact that they had all been friends. Kind of.

An hour in, they were running out of easy stuff. And it was getting to be what Hank Summers would probably consider late. Finally, Buffy steeled herself and asked the one thing she wanted to know most and was most afraid of knowing. “What happened to Angel?”

Willow looked seriously worried. And seriously sad. “How much do you already know?” she asked. Buffy insisted hard to herself that her friend only wanted to avoid rehashing. She was most certainly not trying to figure out how much room she had to bend the truth, just as Giles surely had not been. Or probably not. Even though her paranoid side was sure he had.

None of that mattered. Only one thing mattered. “Drusilla said he was dead. She said...” here Buffy had to swallow hard. “She said I killed him.”

Willow bowed her head just a little, breaking on direct eye contact. Not a good sign. Buffy couldn't breathe. It felt like her heart was going to explode. The second or two that it took Willow to put together a verbal response felt like an eternity.

“He changed, Buffy,” she half insisted, half pleaded. “He wasn't... He lost his soul. He wasn't Angel anymore. And... there was a fire, or a, well, but— Buffy, he was killing people. He killed my _father_. I wasn't going to tell you that yet, but— And this is horrible but, it was a good thing, or at least it was a right thing. He wouldn't have wanted to live like that, not again.”

Buffy just nodded. Not trusting herself to speak. He'd lost his soul. It was as senseless as it was painful. How do you lose something you're cursed with? What kind of curse damns the victim when it's lifted?

 _Like waking up from a coma._ Buffy was startled by the thought. The thought that she'd be better off if she had just stayed asleep. She kept that to herself, and Willow was only too glad to change the subject. To something completely horrible.

“So you talked to Giles the other night, right? I mean, he filled you in on everything?”

“Oh yeah,” Buffy agreed, her tone grim and emphatic. “All filled in. Still trying to make it make sense, but at least I know... how it happened. I mean...” here Buffy colored with embarrassment. “The idea of me and Giles, together like that... It takes some getting used to but at least I know, you know?”

Buffy tried hard to say all that in a positive way, to mean it that way even. She couldn't quite, but apparently it didn't show. Willow literally sagged with relief. “Oh thank God!” she exhaled, all in one breath. Words kept tumbling out of her just as quickly. It was like a dam had burst. “I'm sorry about... what I said before with the whole End of the World cover story, but that's what we're telling everybody, like the other Watchers and Xander and Oz, cuz if the Council ever found out you and Giles were actually a thing, you know, death, or at least badness, but I just thought he should be the one to tell you, and I didn't want you to say something different to anybody until he got a chance to really talk to you about, you know, your relationship, and the kidnapping and where Dawn came in and everything, so.... do you still love me?”

Willow was giving her a hopeful, desperate-for-approval kind of look. All Buffy could do was stare back at her. It was like her brain was holding her body captive, paralyzing it with some kind to crazy gridlock of thoughts stuffed into too little head-space and traveling in too many directions.

“Buffy?” Willow asked after much too long a moment had passed, peering into her eyes worriedly, as if checking to see if she was still in there. “Are you okay?”

Another second or two passed before Buffy shook herself internally and responded. “Yeah, yeah I just—I'm... It's late. I... I have to go.”

“Sure,” Willow agreed, still sounding very worried. “I'll drive you home.”

Buffy shook her head and bolted for the door. “No, she called over her shoulder. No. I'm fine.”  

Buffy wasn't going home. She didn't even know what that word meant anymore. After a few blocks, she found a payphone and called directory assistance for the tiny Caribbean island that Kendra was from. When the man she was trying to reach picked up the phone, she didn't beat around the bush or waste time. “This is Buffy Summers,” she told the seriously serious sounding Watcher. “I'm awake now, and I need to new Watcher. Preferably one who lives anywhere but Sunnydale.”


	8. Escape Velocity

“Soon,” that was all Mr. Zabuto had said. He would relay her wishes to the Council and someone would be in touch with her “soon” about the possibility of leaving Sunnydale for good. She hadn't wanted to question him too much about the details, not after she had gotten the gist of what had happened to Kendra. Why bother the poor guy when he was so clearly in mourning for someone who had been, for all intents and purposes, his only child?

She would just wait and talk to the Council guy when he got in touch with her, Buffy decided. That had been three weeks ago. Three weeks in which time had seemed not just to crawl but to actually move backwards, or possibly sideways.

For starters, there was school. Sure, Buffy had know that she had some incompletes. Incompletes that had not gotten completed in summer school because she had been mostly dead all summer. She had figured she'd have to take some makeup tests or do extra work or something.

But nothing had prepared her for the bombshell Snyder had dropped on her the first and only time she and her dad had met with him to discuss it. After everything she had done and seen and lived through, even though she less than four months from turning eighteen, she was still in the eleventh grade.

“You mean I have to start the whole year over?” Buffy had all but shouted when Snyder delivered the news. But Hank waived her to silence. Joyce would have let her speak, would have insisted on it. Buffy was sure of that. If she hadn't been too busy with her _other_ daughter (okay and also the gallery) to be there at all.

“The last day she was actually in school was March 4th,” Snyder had told Hank pretend-regretfully, eyeing Buffy with a slight sneer of grim satisfaction that Hank either didn't see or pretended he didn't see. “That's less than halfway through the semester; and yet, she still managed to have eleven unexcused absences out of only thirty-nine instructional days. Even on the other twenty-eight days, she missed one class a day on average. There's no way to deal with that other than to repeat the classes.”

“But I already did the f—” Buffy tried to interject. But Snyder kept right on talking as Hank gave her a pointed look of impatience that made it crystal clear which of them he intended to listen to.

“As for the first semester,” Snyder supplied, countering the argument that Buffy wasn't being allowed to make. “She got two Cs and a B out of six classes, the rest were all Ds. And most of those Cs and Ds are in classes that are the first halves of year-long classes she can't take the other half of until Spring anyway. I mean, we _could_ put her in a bunch of electives and study halls this semester and drop her into the middle of all her core classes after Christmas, but we wouldn't be doing her GPA any favors, now would we?”

“No,” Hank had agreed, “She'll take the core classes over, that's obviously the best thing.” At that point, Buffy had shrugged and quit arguing. Other than the embarrassment of seeing her father basically lay down at Snyder's feet and offer to be his doormat, what did it really matter? She'd be gone in a few days anyway, right? Apparently not.

Meanwhile, her home life was every bit as Twilightzoney as her school life. It was also a lot harder to snooze through and/or phone in. The first few days, she had slept in the spare bedroom that they had always called the office, mainly because it had an old computer in it as well as a twin bed. Except that now it was a real office. Hank's office in which he sat at his new, much snazzier computer, from which he 'telecommuted' to L.A. all day, every day, except for the hours of midnight to six a.m., which were begrudgingly allotted for Buffy to sleep.

Sleep wasn't the problem, of course. Buffy couldn't sleep six hour straight if you paid her. Even her parents weren't too blind to see that. But what she did need was space. Privacy. And the ability to plausibly pretend to be home when she was not.

After less than a week, she had moved down to the basement. That was where all of her stuff was anyway. (Well, the stuff they hadn't yet given to Dawn to tear apart and spit up on like she had Mr. Gordo.) Her bed was there, for example. And her weapons trunk, it's secrets apparently kept safe by her parents' acute lack of interest in understanding even the tiniest thing about her, even when they had thought that they would never see her awake again.

The basement was not set up for habitation in any sense. There were boxes piled everywhere. It was the repository of everything there wasn't room for upstairs anymore, including Buffy.

That suited her fine, Buffy decided. She agreed that there was no place for her here. She was only marking time. Waiting to be called back into active service, like a soldier on leave. Even if she was taking her leave in a war zone and pitching in here and there with the fighting. The last thing she needed was to be upstairs tripping over the family she was leaving behind as they so clearly preferred.

Plus, the basement had two small windows near its low ceiling that she could just wriggle through if she held her breath. They let onto the back and side yards respectively, nearly flush with the ground. Which meant she could come and go as she pleased, as long as she was home before her now supersized family started stirring around sunrise.

Beyond that, having her parents back together felt too much and not enough like old times. They weren't fighting again yet. They were still all love-and-lean-on-each-othery, what with the hard times they were going though having their old worn out kid intrude on the perfect life they were trying to make for their new and improved kid. But Buffy, who knew what to look for, could see the subtle (and not so subtle) signs of both of them holding back things they actually disagreed about and would like to have brought up if not for the do-or-die-ness of their last ditch attempt at being a happy family.

Dinner was like an international passive-aggressiveness festival. Which was why Buffy pretended to have dinner at Willows as much as she could get away with. And why Hank always got important work calls at dinnertime and/or had a make or break deadline to meet every other night. He was always very sorry to miss dinner of course.

Joyce, in turn, cooked more and more elaborate meals and cheerfully insisted that she was surprised by the near daily lack of attendance there at. “Not mad, just surprised.” The fridge was stuffed with leftovers that she kept pushing Buffy to take to school for lunch, as if she wasn't already enough of a two-headed circus freak in the eyes of all her classmates.

Buffy's only escape was Slaying, and even that was a bit of a social minefield these days. Giles might have been off the clock, but Mystery Inc. was still open for business. Willow, Oz, and Xander had been doing their best to fight the forces of darkness while Buffy had been down for the count. It was kind of awesome of them really. But they had all just assumed Buffy would passively slot herself into their operation and basically take orders from Willow.

That was never gonna happen, of course. For research, sure, she was happy to work with them. But their didn't seem to be any big bads needing researched at the moment. Just your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill vampires and demons skulking in the shadows, looking for helpless victims. Buffy could handle those on her own.

The only really interesting thing to go down during Buffy's absence, as far as she could see, was what both Giles and Willow 'N' Company had completely missed in all their research. Apparently, Mayor Wilkins had been the biggest, baddest bad in the history of Sunnydale, with a gang of vampire minions doing all his dirty work while he stayed above it all, looking all nice and normal. Since Wilkins had died, the vampire population in Sunnydale had thinned out. And those who had stayed were causing a lot less than their usual amount of trouble.

Weirdly, even Spike seemed to have found honest work, though presumably for dishonest reasons. No doubt he was dipping into the blood bank. After all, he had a malevolent, bloodthirsty hag to support. And Angel's apartment to occupy. Upholding his social station as the Slayer of Slayers.

Buffy had told herself she wouldn't have time to go back over there and kill them, that she would be leaving in a few days and would just have to let Team Watcher know where Kendra's successor could find them. But that had been three weeks ago. Three weeks in which time had seemed not just to crawl but to actually move backwards, or possibly sideways.

She seemed to be stuck in Sunnydale's gravitational pull, Buffy decided, like a small rocket trying to leave a large planet, never having quite enough force behind her to escape. Or maybe it was destiny that was pulling on her so hard, not letting her leave the seen of her fate until all that must happen had happened. She had even had the half serious thought that maybe it was sort of like the movie 'Groundhog Day'; maybe she couldn't move on until she started living her long last day in Sunnydale right instead of just waiting for it to be over.

And that was why, on this sunny weekday morning when she should have been in school dutifully repeating the same work she'd done last year at the same time (and avoiding the library every bit as much as she had used to gravitate towards it) Buffy found herself instead standing on the street in front of Angel's building, staring down at his door.

“Well as I live and breathe!” said a voice behind her. A young female voice with an odd quality of sounding cynical, amused, and admiring all at the same time. “The girl, the myth, the legend. You _must_ be Buffy Summers!”

Buffy turned to see a tall, pale, dark-haired girl her own age or a little younger. White as snow. Red as blood. Dark as ebony. Everything and nothing like Drusilla. Like Snow White risen from her coffin.

The hairs on the back of Buffy's neck stood up. This girl didn't exactly trip her internal vampire alarm but they didn't always. Especially when there were other nearby vamps to cause interference.

Her look was sort of soft Goth. Leather and denim, all dark but not all black. A relatively tasteful amount of metal. It was a look that was borderline trendy among novice vamps and experienced high school outcasts alike.

“Yeah,” Buffy said, when she realized the moment had gotten sort of elderly. “I must.” The pun was seriously worn, but she didn't feel like wasting the energy it would take to think of something better. Somewhere between greeting and challenge she added, “Who must you be?”

The girl's face broke out in a wide grin that looked somehow vicious and innocent at the same time, like a kitten pouncing on a ball or yarn. “I'm Faith,” she announced proudly, extending her hand, “The Vampire Slayer.”

 


	9. Double Trouble

It was ten o'clock. Third period. AP English. One of several times each day that Willow had to sprint past the library to get where she needed to go. There he was. Like always. Standing at the door of the library. Pretending to be on duty even when she knew for a fact that he wasn't. Pretending to be a teacher.

“Erm... Willow?” Giles called after her in that more-a-request-than-a-question tone, as usual. But this time he didn't give up as easily. “Willow!” he shouted after her, much more pointedly, more demandingly. He sounded closer than he should have been by this point too.

She turned to find that he was actually following her, pushing his way through the crowd of students to do it. He caught up with her just as she reached the classroom door. When he realized that she meant to go in anyway, he grabbed her by the arm. She tried to pull away, but he held on.

“Hey!” she objected loudly, not caring who heard. Maybe wanting them to hear, actually. “Watch it Mister! Hands to yourself!”

Giles ignored that and all it's unpleasant, deliberately unfair implications. “I need a moment of your time,” he stated flatly. His tone was crisp and businesslike, polite even; but his eyes shined fiercely. As if _he_ had a grievance against _her_.

“I have to get to class,” Willow said shortly. She didn't try to hide her contempt. What would be the point? She turned again, trying to go, but he held on tight, his grip becoming slightly painful, though probably only because she was straining against it.

“I've already spoken to Mr. Daffern,” he explained, forcing an even gentler tone and an actual smile (probably because people were staring) “You've been excused for the entire period to assist me with a special project for which you will be given extra credit. Now...” he said, releasing his grip on her arm at last. He gave his own hand a strange look as if he was only now realizing that it had grabbed her, against his express instructions. “Please,” he half begged, his voice faltering with what might have been regret or mere uncertainty, “follow me.”

Willow folded her arms and glared at him. “Do I have a choice?” she asked, already sounding and feeling fairly sulky.

“No, you do not,” he confirmed, all crisp and official again. His eyes were hard and bright, all trace of uncertainty gone from his voice. Had he even felt the moment of regret he had seemed to have seconds ago, about grabbing her like that if nothing else? Or was he just stealth deescalating?

“Fine,” Willow huffed, rolling her eyes behind his back as he turned and she followed him back to the library. “But I'm not going to be any help,” she mumbled, just loud enough that she was sure he could hear her. His own sigh confirmed that he had indeed heard her but he didn't comment.

When they got to the library, Willow stood just inside the door, arms still folded. “Well?” she demanded, “What?”

Giles narrowed his eyes and gave her an unpleasant, appraising look. “A few things,” he said at last, all tense and quietly angry.

“Yes, I got your messages,” Willow answered the questions he hadn't yet asked impatiently. “And yes, I was home when you rang my bell and banged on my door until the neighbors called the cops. No, I will not help you get Buffy to talk to you. Yes, she is still almost literally mad enough to kill you, so a word to the wise, ya know?”

“Willow—” Giles tried to interrupt. His tone was one of censure and warning. It was almost threatening. The nerve!

“What I do about the forces of darkness on my own time with my own friends is my own business,” Willow continued stubbornly, “whether Buffy has anything to do with it or not. No, I don't think Mr. Daffern is the new Watcher, even if he is English, but if he was I wouldn't tell you. I also wouldn't tell you if I thought his daughter Anna was the Slayer, but she's not. Yes, I have been trying to kill Spike again, even after you told me it was too dangerous, and no, he still hasn't tried to kill me back, which I agree is weird, but also good, and still none of your business.

“There,” Willow added with a sharp nod of finality, “If that's all you wanted, I'd like to go back to English class.” She gave him her best resolved face. Seconds passed. He kept looking at her sternly. She could feel her resolved face melting into her worried-I-don't-look-resolved-enough face.

“Sit down,” Giles said tiredly, breaking eye contact at last. He pulled out a chair from that one reading table they had always favored and led by example. She followed suit, then sat there a long, embarrassed moment while he looked down and the table and tried to run his hand through his hair and clean his glasses at the same time.

“Forgive me,” he said stiffly when he looked up at last, glasses firmly in place. “I'm sorry to be so... high handed...” He didn't look sorry, Willow noticed, just sort of wrung out. He didn't sound sorry either, just tense and politely angry again. Still, she let him finish, searching for any sign that he really might be showing the kind of remorse and humility that would give Willow (and more importantly Buffy) room to forgive him and start saving the world together on a regular basis again.

“Ordinarily, I wouldn't have made such a fuss,” he continued, minimizing his inappropriate behavior, trying to force a 'nervous laugh', acting so much like every kind of man her mother had ever warned her about that he reminded her, uncomfortably, of her mother and of her own guilt.

“So what is it then?” she demanded, wanting this conversation to happen faster, to be over, feeling sick with regret, but sounding angry.

“I'm told, you've been having meetings with our new _mayor_ , Mr. Chase,” Giles stated bluntly, ready to get down to business at last. He said 'mayor' like it was one of your real top-shelf curse words, which was understandable considering who/what the last one had turned out to be, Willow guessed.

“Yeah,” she said brow furrowing in genuine perplexity. Told by whom, she wondered, considering every single person they both knew who knew anything like the truth about this town wasn't speaking to him. It wasn't important, Willow decided. He was a Watcher. They had ways. “So what?” she added when Giles didn't stop waiting for her answer to continue. “He's Cordelia's dad.”

Giles's already narrowed eyes narrowed even more. He still didn't say anything. Willow looked down at the table for a fraction of a second. Then she looked up again, eyes blazing with sudden, intense anger.

“Yes, okay, he wants me to do magic!” She admitted. “On Cordelia. To make her wake up and, and have her brain be not smooshed anymore. Which I'm trying to figure out how to do, cause, hey, powers used for good, and, and, Xander is in love with her, and you know, friends, unselfish, right? Plus, if I can wake her up then maybe I can help my mom too!” And before she, in her agitated state, could think better of it, Willow added, “And Amy.”

Giles sat up straighter. “Amy Madison?” he demanded, in a hard, sharp voice, though they both knew perfectly well that the missing girl was the only 'Amy' Willow would have to have expected him to recognize without the benefit of a last name. “Good Lord! What have you done to her?”

“Nothing!” Willow shot back at him. “Some other witch turned her into a rat! Debbie Langston if you really want to know! But she's missing now too, and no I didn't do that either! And! And! You're one to talk! I think I have a better record at being a good witch than you!”

Somewhere in the midst of that diatribe anger had turned to panic and tears. “Willow,” Giles repeated several time, firmly yet soothingly, taking her hand across the table. Forgetting for a moment that he wasn't supposed to be her friend anymore, she held on for dear life. “Everything is fine,” he assured her, also repeatedly. “You're all right. Everything is going to be all right.”

Willow wiped at her eyes and gave him a skeptical but grudgingly not hostile look. “Really?” she asked. “Because if that's what you heard, Giles, I don't think we were having the same conversation.”

“Fine,” he admitted with what sounded a lot more like his old, familiar, Watcherly grumbliness, “There is a powerful and quite possibly evil witch out there turning people into animals. The Mayor may or may not be evil. For Cordelia's sake you might wish to work with him even if he is. Buffy will probably never speak to me again, even if the fate of the world does depend on it, which it might. Speaking of which, there may or may not be another Watcher and Slayer in town, and even if I knew who they were, I'd likely never get close enough to them to find out if I can safely leave the guardianship of the Hellmouth in their hands. And on top of all that I've been an enormous ass to try to discourage you from fighting your nightly battles instead of helping you win them.

“There!” he added with a sheepish smile. “Have I successfully listed all of the reasons why you and I working together and being... well... friends is our duty to humanity?  Are you sufficiently convinced?”

Willow smiled too, doing her best to keep it a wary smile. “Nope,” she teased, suddenly pulling a pouty face and sounding extra prim at the same time. “Exactly one more thing will have to go wrong first.”

*****

A slow smile spread across Buffy's face as she shook the hand Faith offered. It was her first one-hundred-percent-for-real smile since she'd woken from her coma almost a month ago. At least if felt like it was. Her deep sense of trepidation didn't disappear completely, because it never disappeared completely, but it faded into the background and was not so much aimed at Faith anymore.

The minute Buffy heard Faith introduce herself as the Slayer, she had know that it was true. Something just clicked into place and realigned the vampire/not-vampire vibes Faith gave off so that they made sudden and absolute sense. She was what Buffy was in a way that had never seemed quite real with Kendra, like meeting yourself from another life.

“I guess this means they're finally ready to airlift me out of here,” Buffy surmised. Before Faith could have much of a reaction to that at all she added, flashing a truly wicked smile, “You wanna kick some undead ass with me before I go.”

“You know it,” Faith agreed with quiet enthusiasm, eyes shining with blood lust and what might actually have been starstruck admiration. “What's the sich? We got a nest here? Feels like more than one.”

“The nest to end all nests,” Buffy informed her with dark, genuine relish. “Welcome to the home of William the Bloody, AKA Spike, Slayer of Slayers.”

Faith nodded soberly, taking this in. She knew what had happened to Kendra, probably in more detail than Buffy did. “So we're servin' up a heapin' helpin' of justice today. Right on. He's got minions I guess?”

“More like friends and family,” Buffy explained. “His bitch sire, Drusilla, and some other couple she hangs with. Or hunts with anyway. Meanwhile he's working nights at the hospital, all Mr. Respectable. Working some kind of scam, obviously. Skimming from the blood bank if nothing else.”

“Yeah, but he should be home now?” Faith not quite asked, more like she was making a declarative statement that could have been more sure of itself.

Buffy nodded. “Unless he enjoys bursting into flames, yeah.”

Faith drew a stake from the sleeve of her leather jacket. “I know I'm gonna enjoy it,” she replied with dark glee. She moved smartly forward poised to clamber down the steps and kick in the door.

Buffy laid a hand on her shoulder, honestly laughing in a not-ironic way for the first time in Weeks. “Don't get me wrong,” she said, “I love the enthusiasm, but they've got sun-tight shudders on the inside. I'm thinking take the windows out first and the shudders with them. Let them be the ones scrambling for any tiny scrap of cover for once.”

“Right on,” Faith agreed, getting even more excited. “Got a hammer I can swing? Or a Molotov Cocktail? I love Molotov Cocktails.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Buffy teased, with mild irony. Then suddenly, without warning, she grabbed a 'No Parking' sign that was rooted to the pavement, twisted it until the pole popped loose and tossed it to Faith.

Faith blinked a little in surprise but she caught the flying sign by it's pole easily enough with her free hand. She was still holding her stake in the other. Still grinning from ear to ear.

“Well now,” Buffy declared, pulling a lighter and a can of hairspray from the deep pockets of her bulky leather jacket, “this should be fun!”

 


End file.
